My writing space overlooks the foggy edge of San Francisco with the Pacific Ocean on the horizon. When the fog clears, I can see in the distance a miniature, toy-like structure that is the Golden Gate Bridge.
This million-dollar view is found in a rather humble house in Daly City, California, where I’m renting a bedroom at a comparatively bargain-basement price. When my housemates are gone or asleep, I try to appreciate the ocean view as much as possible. Otherwise I usually lock myself in my bedroom with my books, guitars, succulent plants, and cheap wine.
Everywhere in this house looks and feels like a foreign country. When I write in this place, I sometimes feel like I’m on vacation writing in a mysterious language that I can’t use for any practical purpose. My characters recently have all been vigilantes.
Note: This essay first appeared at Toasted Cheese Literary Journal.